


Home is the end

by skadagalen



Category: The Walking Dead, Twd - Fandom, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, The Governor - Freeform, dallas roberts, david morrissey, milton mamet - Freeform, philip blake - Freeform, the walking dead - Freeform, twd, walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadagalen/pseuds/skadagalen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Milton survived the ending of season three, and still went along with Philip all those months. When they're in the camp, Milton begins to realize that there is no real redemption for Philip, and decides to take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is the end

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I miss a lot of spelling errors and what not, so I apologize if some parts are iffy because of that.

It was early morning, and as always, the first one up, was the one who never even slept to begin with. Milton sat up in his bed; faint light from the rising sun came through the small RV window, and the chirp of birds could be heard. The sound pleasant in the scientists ears, a familiar and peaceful sound that often made him forget that it was the end of the world. But it didn’t stop him from enjoying it for a few moments longer before finally swinging his legs out of the bed and walking down the narrow hall. 

Faint snoring from the small couch made him stop in his tracks—there Philip laid sprawled out on it, his night shirt was on, but his regular boots and pants were still on. Milton’s brow furrowed as he wondered at what point in the night Philip had come into his RV. 

Staring down at him, he felt a pain in his side surface—he hadn’t felt that familiar sting in months. A hand went to his side, still staring down at his friend, a faint look of disgust battled with the look of compassion on his face. Two very different looks mingled on the advisors face as he continued to look at the others worn face; he studied every line, every bag under his eye, the stubble that riddled his lower face. 

He carried the look of a man who truly had hit the last straw, but Milton always admired how he still managed to carry himself and still bring his confidence to play. How he managed to still face the day with dignity no matter how much the other was broken deep inside. How badly Philips core was destroyed, and how he’d lost himself—but in recent weeks he had tried to improve himself, and Milton could see he was trying, but there was no return and he knew that the moment his friend began his new life as ‘Brian Heriot’.

It came quickly crashing down as sudden deaths and disappearances were happening around camp, and he only knew of once person who could possibly be at fault. As if it were a plague that swept over the camp each night, and took out another person who was a potential threat to what Philip had in mind. But what he had in his mind had been distorted and wrong. He found himself to be the leader, to be rule, to be king—he didn’t want the responsibility anymore but only he was worthy of the crown to be placed on his head. 

Only he could lead these people even though he knew the power went to his head—it turned Philip into a ticking time bomb. But still, he persisted. It was like back in Woodbury; he killed and slaughtered anyone that could take his position of power. He kept an order in the little town till his sanity and hunger for war and bloodshed grew too large and brought the downfall of his empire. Milton recalled the last day in Woodbury, the day he was meant to die, and the day he swore he wouldn’t care for this man any longer.

But as he came close, he was saved by the very man who had stabbed him and left him for dead—Philip spent hours applying fabrics and clothes to sop up the blood before bandaging. Milton never once asked why he had bothered to come back, why he had brought him back from a near death that HE caused. Instead he accepted the sudden act of tenderness and frantic behaviour from him. What he didn’t expect was that he ended up still following him—months of scavenging and hiding—he should have left, and forgot about him. But it wasn’t that easy… It never was. 

Milton snapped out of his thoughts and continued his way down to the bathroom. The first thing he did was take off his night shirt, tossing it aside before looking into the mirror. A heavy sigh came from him as he looked himself over, eyes wondered until they rested on his right side. There, three scars etched along the skin on his right hip and abdomen; a hand touched each one tenderly, as they may have been healed but they were sensitive still. 

The damaged, scared skin was not subtle, and not pleasant to look at; with the lack of hospitals and proper medical attention, they lacked the proper treatment and care, resulting in the hideous scaring on his side. As his hand ran over them, he remembered the morning the wounds were inflicted. His mind ran the entire scene in his mind, and he physically flinched as the memory of the first blade tore through his skin. He remembered the look on Philips face, as he gave him a pleading look, only to come face to face with one of murder. 

There was no trace of his friend when he shoved him against the wall, driving the blade into him another two times. The whole scene made a shiver run down Milton’s back as he recalled—almost feeling—the pain of that blade in him. Being so wrapped up in to memory, he failed to notice that Philip was standing just outside of the doorway. His brow was upturned as he gave a look that hadn’t been seen in so long. 

The advisor was sure he hadn’t seen that face in over a year, nearing two, and was sure that the man was incapable of giving or feeling the emotion he was displaying. It was simply a look of apology and guilt. It was so strange seeing that look on him when the last time he truly looked his friend in the face, was the day he was remembering only seconds ago. It was like a bad before and after picture. 

Seeing a man that started off so family orientated, and determined, never phased before, be knock down so many times that when you now look at him you only pity him. A king whose crown had been taken, but he still kept a hand on it trying to pry it back. The king knew he was not fit for these people any longer, and agreed to step down, but inside he knew he was the only one worthy of leading, and so his hand remained gripping on his crown as others only tried to take it. It was confusing to see and must have been hell to go through. 

But as Milton stared at Philip, waiting for the taller male to say something, his hand flattened against the scars, hiding them. The advisor would not show how much it hurt, not physically, but how much it mentally hurt the man to have lost a friend—family almost.

But as Philip approached him slowly, hand coming out just as slow to show he meant no harm to him. But the other instantly backed up a few feet till he braced himself and stood his ground, waiting for whatever it was that he wanted. His eyes shut as he waited for some sort of snarky comment, some sort of verbal or physical abuse; as a hand removed his own, and soon felt two fingers touch one of the scars. His eyes snapped open as he looked at Philip with a confused look, almost border line angry. 

Why is he being tender? What happened to you in these past few months that made you so… Normal again, even just for a moment. The thought ran through Milton’s hand as he studied Philip; he couldn’t understand why he chose now to be gentle. But he knew it was all a lie, he knew people around the camp were going missing and they were all people who held power in the camp and everyone was leaning towards, ‘Brian.’ 

Milton’s internal thoughts about the man changed to often, one moment he admired his determination for survival, but the next he was in complete disgust with him. Right now he felt both like he had only moments ago when he saw him sleeping on the couch. Why was it so difficult to let him go? 

Philips hand flattened down on the scars when he finished investigating them, his hand gently stayed there, and Milton could only stand there and stare at him. With all the thoughts flowing through the advisors mind, everything he’s thought about that morning, everything that has happened in the past two years—he now knew he had to do something.

As much as he loved Philip as a brother, grew up with him, but not related by blood, he was the only one who could stop him. If anyone else were to take care of Philip, then he would have failed his brother. When they were kids he promised him he’d take care of him as much as Philip protected him. In his mind it was only right that Milton would be the one to stop him—but the problem was, was how?  
He’d been thinking about doing this for weeks, but when they found this camp, he put it aside, hoping he would finally settle down, but it only got worse and now the thought was stronger than ever. Philip ruined his last chance after the advisor kept giving him more and more for the past few months. He had so many chances to do it, but it would seem right to just do it here, or anywhere else.   
Milton had to do it were it felt right, were he thought his friend deserved to be put out of misery. It was later that day that he had convinced Philip to come on a run with him, taking one of the few trucks the tiny camp had and drove for miles. The other question him about where they were going and the timid man simply answered, “Home.” And the moment that word slipped from his mouth, Philip felt his chest tighten his heart drop and his stomach turn.

Right then he knew what his advisor was up to, and he sunk down in his seat, he never once said a thing about it or resisted. Instead he just kept his gaze out the window and simply waited. What he didn’t expect was for Milton to take an alternative route; he was expecting him to go through the old gates. 

At first he had no idea where this tiny road lead but the moment he saw a small sign with the local school name on it, he felt his chest tighten even more. Now he was really starting to gather the pieces together—Milton was seriously going to do this. 

He knew the man well; they grew up together practically and weren’t even related. But he knew he was serious, he knew this was a dead end; he knew he would end it all where it began. But not once did he speak up about, not once did he try to run as they got out of the car and began to walk towards to small field. 

Not once did he think about running or stopping Milton, he knew what he had become; he knows the pain he has caused. Mostly he knows the damage he’s done to the people closest to him, and he knew that Milton felt the responsibility of taking his life, and he could respect that—he himself would have it no other way. 

He had to give it to the man; this took courage, bravery, and a strong heart to do this. His friend was the most compassionate man he’s ever known, he never once spoke a word against you, he never judged you, always stood by your side, and only wanted to improve and impress those closest to him. 

Now he took it upon himself to do this, and he could only applaud and admire Milton for this, and most of all thank him. Philip had reached the end of his rope, he burnt his entire kingdom, watched everyone he loved die, and became nothing but a power seeking mongrel. He hated it and in these past few months he’d tried so hard to become himself again when he met the Chambler family and seeing Milton still care for him after everything.

But the fact remained, he was too far gone to get back, and even he saw that as he killed all those people in camp, just for his position in power again. He only saw himself worthy and it was a disgusting addiction—power. It ruined everything and he let it consume him and it lead all the way to this; as a child he never would have figured he would turn into this man. Now as they reached the edge of the field, Philip stopped and looked around, a small huff of laughter came from him as he looked at the familiar area. 

This was exactly the spot they used to sit when they were children, the spot where they first met. He recalled the large oak tree with the indents in its trunk where they would sit—and looking up at the branch above it, a large smile came to his face. It was then a whole scene just opened up and played around him; his mind projected the day he met Milton Mamet.   
\--  
The small dorky boy clung to a tree trunk as bullies stood underneath throwing stones at him, calling him weak and pathetic as the boy had climbed the tree but couldn’t get down. He wanted to show them he wasn’t scared but ended up showing them he was in fact scared of heights. 

A smaller, chubby cheeked Philip stepped behind them as they called Milton names, and continued to throw things at him. He cleared his throat making the other boys turn to him; he was the new boy at school but for some reason these boys feared him, and he hadn’t done anything. 

Upon seeing the new kid glaring at them with his arms crossed, they all played it off and walked away muttering whatever’s. When they were gone, Philip looked up to the other boy, “Do you need help?” Milton only nodded his head in response as he was clinging to the tree with dear life, his whole body shook. 

But as Philip went to assist, the little boy made the mistake of looking back to see what the other was doing and lost his grip for only a second. But that was enough to let him slide off the branch and hit the ground, face hitting the ground; Philip was over by him in less than a second helping him up, “You ok?!” 

For a moment the child looked concerned, but Milton ignored the question as his eyes widened, suddenly rummaging around on the dirt ground for something. “M-my glasses. Headmaster will kill me if I break or lose another pair.”   
“Hey, hey, calm down, I got them.” Philip mentioned gently as he sat on the ground holding them out to the other boy. Milton quickly snatched them and put them back on his face before finally muttering thanks; he tried to give the other a smile, but he was embarrassed and only ended up looking around at anything else around them.

All the other boy did was prop his head up on his hand and smile at him, instantly curious with the other, “My names Philip.” He said abruptly, and the other just looked back at him for a moment, confused that someone was actually talking to him. 

He was so used to being neglected and pushed aside, no other children took an interest in what he liked and thought it was weird. But instead of questioning Philip, he gave a small smile, “Milton Mamet.”  
\--  
When Philip finally came back to the present day, that small smile he had, was still there; back then he didn’t know that, that scared boy up in the tree would become his best friend, his brother, and his executioner. 

Now his attention turned to the spot under the tree, where they would sit every lunch period from grade three, all the way until graduation, and it had the grooves in the tree where they sat to prove it. The whole time Philip stared at the old spot, reminiscing, Milton stood behind him as he fumbled with the gun in his holster. 

His hand was shaking and he already thought of just leaving and going back to the camp, forgetting about any of this. But it was too late, they were here, Philip must know why, he wasn’t a dumb man. But this was difficult for him; no matter how many times he felt betrayed by him in the past two years, no matter how disgusted he was with what his friend became, he still loved him more than anything. 

Ever since they were children he looked up to him and only sought to win his approval. Little did Milton even know that the entire time they were together, Philip always gave his approval and admired Milton for the man he already was. He was definitely a man he’d wanted to be, loyal, truthful, determined, innocent, and lovable; it was everything the other wanted to be and his advisor had it all. 

But his silence and hesitation made Philip speak up, “You know I’ve always admired you. You were always the kind of man that others should have been, you are to kind and strong in a way that others cannot comprehend. You were always there for me and Penny, even Sarah when she was still alive… You’ve done so many things without hesitation, and you went against me in Woodbury to show me I was wrong and I didn’t listen. I screwed up Milton… I let myself go, and you and I both know there’s no way back. So please,” Philip’s words caught in his throat as he spoke. 

He was still looking ahead, back towards Milton so the smaller man could not see his face; if he could see his face right now, he was certain he would never go through with his plan. But tears threatened to fall, and his jaw clenched as he tried to compose himself enough for this. 

“Please, just do it. I knew my time was coming, and I would rather be at the hand of my brother, than a biter or a random survivor. Just—do it, please.” Even though Milton couldn’t see his face, he knew that he was almost at the brink of tears, but he already beat him to it. 

His gun was gripped in his shaking hand as tears streamed down his face—this wasn’t an easy task, and once it was done, he’d be destroyed and no doubt sobbing more than the smaller man ever had in his life. No matter how much this man betrayed him, and turned into a monster, he was still his friend—his brother. His only family. He would have to shoot him, stop this madness and begin something new and now the gun was raised, aimed right at the back of Philips head. 

While all this took place, Philip knew he had finally brought his gun up, and a smile came to his face, tears finally falling. There had only been a few times in Philip Blake’s life that he had truly cried, and this was one of the few times. But this was different. This was a form of release.

He took one last look at the scenery, the area bringing a sense of comfort in knowing this was the place he’d die. In a way, he felt this was unfair how he was to die where he was once known as Philip, a warm hearted, charming boy, killed in his favourite spot by his brother. It was all perfect in a strange way, and while it was the perfect place to die, it wasn’t fair how it made him comfortable. 

A monster like him should suffer should they not? Should he not be tossed to the biters and torn to pieces for all the pain he has caused? He knew Milton was repulsed by him, the new him was a cruel man, a man who deserved the worst possible way to die. But yet, his brother still chose to give him a sense of comfort before he died—another reason why he was a better man. Milton’s hand shook as it still remained aimed, he was biting down on his lip to keep in his sobs, but the tears kept going, “C’mon, Milty… Do it.” 

“I… I…” Milton couldn’t even utter any words as the sobs broke through more and more every second. He had to do this, he had to end this all, he had to put him down. He had to. There was no going back. There would be no more waking up to Philip in the kitchen eating his cereal, there would be no more arguing over who left what where, there would be no more childish banters, there would be no jokes shared anymore, there would be no wrestling over sharing, there would be nothing. This was it. “Don’t tell me you’re qui-“

“Don’t—“Milton cut him off, he was still trying so hard not to sob, trying so hard to keep himself somewhat composed. He would not let Philip see him lose himself, he would stay strong and all Philip did was nod. He understood—it was time. He shut his eyes, and he stood there now waiting, but what Milton said next made him smile on last time. 

“I love you.” And just before that trigger was pulled, Philip whispered back in response, ‘I love you to.’ And within a matter of seconds, Milton’s finger finally pulled on the trigger. In the few seconds it took for the bullet to pass and Philips body to go limp, falling to the ground like a rag doll, he let the gun drop the ground. Right then was when the sobs finally surfaced, and the advisor finally let himself go; tears flowed as he walked over to his brother’s body, letting himself drop to his knees. 

Hand instantly gripped at his shirt as his forehead rested against his back—it was done. But all Milton could do was sit there. 

It was almost five in the evening when he finished; he had gotten a shovel from the back of the truck and spent all afternoon digging Philips grave right where he used to sit. It was perfectly aligned with the grove in the trunk of the tree and he’d even carved right above his grave on that trunk with his name, and his date of birth to whatever day he assumed it to be now. Once he was done he sat in his spot for an hour next to Philip, silently watching across the field, letting the last few tears dry before he finally got up. 

Before he left for the truck, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a folded photo, and upon unfolding it he gave a heavy sigh. It was a photo of them at Philips twenty third birthday, and he’d brought Milton to the bar for the first time. The two of them sat at the table, Philips arm slung around Milton’s shoulders, while the other hand grabbed his brothers face, making him have a ridiculous facial expression. 

It was one of his favourite photos, and had carried it with him for years with him everywhere. It was the photo that kept a little hope in him that his brother would come home to him one day, that the Governor wasn’t all that was left. 

But now he walked over to the trunk of the tree, pulling the pocket knife from his pocket, he aligned the photo before pegging it to the tree with the tiny knife. He left it there as he walked away to the truck, leaving his memories behind. It was over.


End file.
